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“It was a few weeks after you were born. I had returned to London with Mama, and we were settling into life with a new babe in the house.”

“What happened?”

“Word was slow to spread at first, but then overnight, it seemed as if everyone knew about that Thompson girl with the illegitimate child.”

Barclay sank back into his chair. His mother had never told him what it was like when he was born. She never complained about the situation, and all he knew were the accumulated observations since he had reached an age to be included in adult conversations.

His gaze found the ceiling, and he scowled harder than he ever had at the cornices to quell the disquiet he felt to hear Aurora’s anguish as she recalled the past.

“One night, I was returning from your room. We had my old nanny to assist me, but I spent as much time as I could with you, and so I was passing the drawing room. The door had not latched properly when I had left them earlier, so I could overhear their conversation. I … I had never heard … my mother cry before that night.”

Barclay’s gut roiled in protest. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the surge of anguish that rose within him as Aurora continued to tell her story.

“Mama was crying, and Tsar was comforting her,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of memory. “She wept because they had abruptly severed their ties with her. That night, I learned how hard she had worked to be accepted when she first arrived in England, how joining the committee had been one of her greatest triumphs, and how the day they accepted her had been a victory for her—a symbol that she had carved a place for herself in Britain. She had worked diligently as a member of the society, so proud of the charitable work she had done … I could not believe it.”

Barclay leaned forward, his brow furrowing with concern. “Could not believe what?”

“That I had been so foolish with the earl. That I had allowed him to seduce me into hurting my family.” Aurora’s voice cracked, but she straightened her back, a flicker of pride glimmering despite her sorrow. “She was such a good mama, and I caused her pain with my selfish, foolhardy choices.”

Barclay clenched his fists at his sides, fighting back the anguish that clawed at his heart. He was the cause of four generations of Thompson pain. His grandmother had always been so steadfast, so joyful despite the whispers. To think of her weeping as she lost her place in society—how his mother had suffered, how Tatiana might suffer in the future—made him ache with longing for Natalya more than he had in years.

He remembered his fumbling attempts to court young Englishwomen in his youth, only to have fathers slam their doors in his face. The memory still burned, raw and unhealed. Meeting Natalya’s father in St. Petersburg and being so warmly welcomed into his home, then meeting Natalya herself and experiencing that same warmth and acceptance—it had been one of the best days of his life.

That a beautiful young woman like her had willingly accepted his proposal and waved away the snubs she experienced when she arrived in England had been nothing short of a miracle to him. Natalya had brushed it all aside with a laugh and a wave of her hand, as though the cruelty of society meant nothing. “They would have snubbed me for being Russian regardless. There is no harm, Barclay,” she would assure him, her accent curling around the words with confidence and grace.

His mind snapped back to the present when Aurora continued speaking, her voice steady though laced with regret. “I vowed, no matter what it took, I would gain a place on the committee in order to honor my mother.” She gestured at the crumpled letter, her fingers brushing the edge as though its mere touch stung. “Obviously, that vow will never be fulfilled. I know it is inconsequential in the grand scope of life, but I feel I have let my mother down all over again.”

Barclay felt his heart crack in his chest, for he had let his own mother down. This connection to the earl had been about opening doors for Aurora. For Tatiana. And this letter proved that nothing had changed.

He imagined the impossible—that he might one day come home to find Jane weeping from the rejections of the day, her heart bruised by society’s cruelty, with no hope of him being able to fix it for her. He could picture the shimmer of tears on her cheeks, her lovely face marred by sadness, and the thought hollowed him. What advice could he offer her, other than to ignore those who behaved with such unkindness? How could he ask her to endure that pain? A young woman at the prime of her life, with her entire future ahead of her, and he knew there was only one decision he could make.

But his own troubles aside, first he needed to attend to his mother.

It was some time later when he escorted Aurora to the public rooms. She had composed herself, the evidence of her tears having subsided, and her good cheer restored once more. Her chin was held high, her eyes bright with determination, as if she had resolved to shut away that painful chapter for good. It would seem she had simply needed a moment to grieve her disappointment, but now, the charitable society was firmly behind her. That door had closed, and she would not knock upon it again.

Barclay deposited Aurora with the countess and the duchess for tea in one of the drawing rooms, exchanging nods of greeting with the elegant ladies before he steeled his nerve and went to search for Mrs. Gordon.

He donned his beaver, smoothing a hand over its brim as he scanned the terrace. Spotting her amid a group of guests, he made his way outside, the cool breeze tugging at the coattails of his jacket. “Mrs. Gordon?”

The widow turned, her face lighting up with obvious delight. “Mr. Thompson! I was hoping to invite you to play ninepins!”

Barclay ignored the fissure of irritation that crept up his spine. Here was a mature woman with a solid reputation who was well aware of the challenges she would face by his side. A woman who understood the pain of losing a spouse, whose presence in society had remained untouched by scandal. As a woman of nearly thirty years of age, it was possible that the widow did not wish for any more children, which would be a balm to his conscience. He could not, in good faith, bring another child into the world only to endure the burden of his bastardy.

Perhaps the widow could grant Tatiana increased respectability. Perhaps she would be a mother figure who understood discretion and grace. If playing ninepins every day for the rest of his life would protect his mother and his child from further derision, then so be it.

Surely he would grow to enjoy it, given time?

He proffered his arm, and the widow gratefully took hold of it, her hand curling around his arm a little more tightly than he was accustomed to. But he was a man of strength, and surely he would grow to like that, too.

Resolutely, he plastered an affable smile on his face and escorted the widow toward the gardens, ignoring the dull ache in his heart as hopes for a future with Jane Davis withered away.

* * *

When Jane reached the library to drink her morning coffee, she found Tatiana waiting for her, perched upon the edge of an armchair with her legs swinging idly.

One of the maids assigned to the nursery for the house party had recently confided to her that the servants responsible for the children had all but given up trying to keep track of the little girl. Apparently, Tatiana would occasionally visit the nursery to play with Ethan and the other children, but she left without a trace when she grew bored. Radcliffe had informed the countess, who had told them to leave the child to her own devices unless Barclay instructed otherwise, as it did not seem to be causing any difficulties and Tatiana was clearly independent.

“Have you seen my papa?” the little girl queried, her silver-blonde curls bouncing slightly as she tilted her head. She waited patiently while Jane poured her coffee, her blue eyes wide with anticipation.